


Regained Magic

by thekeyholder



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Future Fic, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 13:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8752963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekeyholder/pseuds/thekeyholder
Summary: Jim is hospitalised on Christmas, due to some complications after his surgery. This is bad enough in itself, but a few hours later the neighbouring bed is assigned to Mayor Cobblepot, who had a run-in again with Nygma.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was supposed to be a drabble, but it turned into this huge fic. Many thanks to [skeleton_twins](http://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/pseuds/skeleton_twins) who picked the Christmas tree prompt from the [Gobblepot Winter bingo card](http://gobblepotgazette.tumblr.com/post/153682854029/gobblepot-winter-2016). I also asked her for two other random keywords, and she gave me tonsils and injury. xD (shhh, she was studying).
> 
> Shoutout to [Nekomata58919](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekomata58919/pseuds/Nekomata58919) for betaing this. :)

Jim’s always had problems with his tonsils – they get infected at least once a year. So finally, after Harvey’s insistence, he makes an appointment. The doctor tells him right away that he needs surgery, exactly what Jim feared. They fix the date for the 20th of December, in the hopes that Jim has less work by then.

 

Of course, he doesn’t. The GCPD is full of noise and dirty scumbags collected from the streets. It’s like they are all trying to fill their quota of evilness until the end of the year. There’s also the ongoing war between Nygma and Penguin, but that’s a whole new level of fucked up. Harvey, as the acting captain, lets him go, albeit a bit reluctantly, since the piles of files just get higher every day.

 

The surgery goes well, and unlike some of the horror stories he’s heard, Jim actually feels fine. He’s told to drink a lot, and he’s sent off with some painkillers. He drops the bottles carelessly on his kitchen counter, and settles in front of his TV with a bottle of cold orange juice.

 

Harvey claps him on the back the next morning, and they are called to a murder scene. Jim feels like he has a throat ache that never goes away. It’s bearable, but annoying. His throat constricts even more when they arrive at the scene: the two men are arranged in the shape of a question mark… one of the men’s head having been separated from his body for this purpose.

 

“For Chrissake…” Harvey mutters, summarising everyone’s thoughts on the war very succinctly.

 

Because there’s no question that Nygma’s done this. Jim hasn’t really had time to talk to Cobblepot, or try to figure out what ended his friendship with the former forensics guy, but he honestly doesn’t care, just to the extent that the fight of these two idiots is tearing down his city. Although, if he were completely honest, he’s surprised that Oswald hasn’t crushed Nygma like a cockroach. The guy is smart, but surely not smarter than Cobblepot?

 

Harvey states that they don’t really have much to do at the scene, and Jim has to agree. It’s not like they can focus on finding the ‘psycho with the question mark obsession’ to quote Harvey – they have tons of other cases. Later, at the advice of his mother, Jim gets ice cream on the way home, hoping to soothe his aching throat. The painkiller bottles are still there on the counter, but he tells himself he’s stronger than the pain.

 

It’s the 24th of December, and Jim can barely drag himself out of bed. He feels as if Santa’s truck from the Coke ads has gone over his body repeatedly over the night. His throat is burning, and it feels like he swallowed glass. He wouldn’t be called Jim Gordon if he didn’t go to work even half dead, though. He keeps a bottle of cold water on him, hoping that he can somehow survive the day by his desk, but of course this is Gotham.

 

Some idiot picked Christmas Eve to perform an armed robbery at the mall.

 

Jim scrambles, his body moving automatically, but he feels like he might pass out any minute. It almost costs him his life, but he dodges the bullet in the last second, and they catch the shooter, and reopen the mall for the late citizens who still need gifts. Harvey is screaming at him for being an idiot, and Jim can’t even retort, because his throat is aching, and he feels hot. He barely has time to grip Harvey’s arm before his legs give out. He comes to in a minute, but Harvey’s not having his stupid excuses, and drops him off at the hospital. He can’t stay, but Jim is grateful nevertheless.

 

He’s hoping to get some strong stuff, and then pass out on his sofa for the entire Christmas. It’s not like he had anything special planned: his flat looks as messy and barren as ever, and he told his mother he’d be working. The same excuse every year, accepted with a resigned huff. He promises to make an effort next year, but he never does.

 

Jim stares at the crowd in the waiting hall: it’s packed, babies crying and people coughing, like something from his worst nightmare. He thinks he’s going to just lie down on the floor and wait for death, but he then notices the nurse that was there during his examination. He hates to abuse his position, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to wait till dawn for a couple of pills.

 

“Mr. Gordon,” she says, flustered, when she notices him. He tries to smile as charmingly as possible.

 

He quickly tells her about his situation, and with a careful look around, she whispers that she’ll try to get him in. They sneak past the other people, and she tells him to sit on an empty examination bed, promising to get a doctor as soon as possible. It’s probably around twenty minutes later when a stressed doctor steps into the room, Jim shaking out of the nap or delirium – he’s been in and out. He doesn’t know if the tinny Christmas carols are coming from somewhere, or if he’s imagining them.

 

Unlike what Jim expects, the doctor tells him that he has to be hospitalised immediately. He’d contradict the doctor, but the pain gets stronger, and his words get stuck in his throat. The nurse guides him through a maze of corridors, faces and desolate walls all blurring in Jim’s mind. He’s taken to a two-bed room, but luckily, both are empty. Jim hopes that he’ll be alone for the first night at least. Maybe he can even leave the next day. Christmas in his putrid flat sucks, but it would suck even more at the hospital.

 

He passes out for several hours, only woken up by some commotion: people are running through the corridors, and he thinks he can hear some raised voices. There’s a sense of panic in the air, but Jim can barely swallow his own saliva, let alone care about what’s going on. He takes off his shirt and trousers, and pulls the cover over himself. He barely registers when a nurse gently wakes him up, and gives him a pill.

 

The next time Jim wakes up, it’s because there are people outside his room, their voices getting louder. Fuck, can’t they just let him sleep? He closes his eyes, hoping that their voices will fade away.

 

“What?! What do you mean there are no more free rooms?”

 

“We’re having a swine flu epidemic, sir. We’re absolutely outnumbered. Believe me, this is the best option. Your roommate is a policeman, you’ll be absolutely safe here.”

 

“Why can’t you just release me?”

 

“Sir, you were stabbed just a couple of hours ago!”

 

Half asleep, Jim snorts into his pillow. They didn’t want to let him go with a stupid throat ache, and this guy thinks they’re going to let him walk away with a stab wound. _Sure_. It seems like the patient finally gives in, for the door is opened quietly, and the bedside table is turned on.

 

“Could you get me something for nausea?”

 

Jim’s been lying with his back to his new roommate, but his eyes pop open when he hears the voice. He turns as quickly as he can.

 

“Oswald?” he rasps, barely audible. He wants to add ‘What the hell are you doing here?’, but it’s way too much effort.

 

“Jim,” Oswald breathes out, eyes wide. He’s in a hospital issued gown, clutching his right side. Unable to say anything more, though if possible, his face becomes even paler.

 

“See? You’ve already found a friend,” the nurse states with a smile, unaware of the tension between the two men. “I’ll let you settle in. I’ll come back in a minute with your medication.”

 

“What are you doing here? Are you alright?”

 

The concerned tone knocks out the air from Jim’s lungs even now, years after his first meeting with the gangster. Why does he care?

 

“Tonsils surgery. Complications,” Jim whispers, his throat already on fire. “You?”

 

“Stabbing,” Oswald says to the ceiling, breathing slowly, probably trying not to throw up. “Lucky escape.”

 

The nurse returns with two IV bags, and connects them to Oswald’s cannula. She left the door open, and Jim spies an armed policeman outside. Of course, the mayor would get police protection. He’s pretty sure who caused the wound, but doesn’t ask Oswald – the mayor’s turned his back towards Jim while he makes a call. Jim reaches for the glass of water on his nightstand.

 

Sometime later, Jim wakes up to agonizing pain in his throat, his forehead and collar covered in sweat. He thinks he can hear faint noises coming from Oswald’s bed, and he realizes with mortification that it’s crying. He’s embarrassed, as if he’s not supposed to be witnessing this. Even though he feels like someone is cutting up his throat, he only pushes the button for the nurse after he’s sure that Oswald has fallen asleep.

 

Nevertheless, the nurse refuses to give him another painkiller, and Jim just tosses and turns till dawn. He’ll be damned if he stays another day. However, the doctor disagrees with him when she makes the rounds in the morning.

 

“Absolutely not, Mr. Gordon. Removing tonsils in adulthood can involve a lot of complications, which already occurred in your case. You’re staying at least another day, if not two. Drink lots of fluids and try chewing gum – generating saliva helps in some cases.”

 

Jim huffs and crosses his arms like a petulant child. The doctor is a tough lady, and he knows his breath would be wasted on her. But when she goes to Cobblepot, she’s all smiles and gentle words. Ugh, of course the mayor gets special treatment. Jim glances a few times towards his bed – the doctor changes Oswald’s bandage. He doesn’t complain, but his face is utterly pale and he bites his lower lip, so he must be in pain. Jim knows that stab wounds are terrible.

 

Breakfast is brought not much later, but Jim can barely eat a few spoonfuls of porridge. He can feel Oswald’s eyes on him as he searches for his phone in the drawer. From the corridor, he calls Harvey and asks him to bring him some things. He hates that he has to bother his partner at Christmas, but there’s really no one else he could ask. While he’s talking, he sees Gabe walking with a black duffel bag to their room, probably bringing some things for the mayor. The policeman at the door checks the contents thoroughly. Jim almost laughs at the thought of Oswald lying in bed in one of his fancy suits.

 

After he sees Gabe exit the room, Jim sneaks inside. Oswald is reading some book, and there are three others on his nightstand in case he gets bored. Jim wishes he was as lucky. He just hopes that Harvey will at least bring him some more comfortable clothes – he feels awkward lying in his shirt and trousers.

 

Harvey’s voice can be heard from the other end of the corridor, and of course he makes a scene at the door too, complaining that he has to get his badge out when his arms are full. Jim smiles, and he notices Oswald rolling his eyes, even though he’s still reading.

 

“Jimbo, since when are you such a VIP that you need a policeman in front of…” that’s when Harvey notices Jim’s ‘roommate’. “Oh. Can’t afford a private room, Cobblepot?”

 

Oswald scowls. “It’s _Mayor_ Cobblepot to you, Detective. Guess what, the hospital is overflowing with patients.”

 

Harvey raises his eyebrows at Jim, surprised by the bite in Penguin’s tone. “So anyway, I thought I’d bring you this small Christmas tree since you have to rot here. A bit of _cheer_ , if you know what I mean,” looking suggestively at Jim’s roommate.

 

“Thanks, Harvey,” Jim says as he gets up from the bed. 

 

He looks at the plastic tree: it’s a bit askew, and the glued-on red and gold baubles look cheap, but it’s better than nothing. Luckily, his partner brought clothes and toiletries too, and Jim goes to the bathroom to change. Meanwhile, Harvey has packed out an entire arsenal of food, as if Jim were confined for an entire month: cookies, peanuts, oranges, apples, chocolates and so on, so it looks like Santa has left a lot of gifts under the tiny tree.

 

“Harvey… you shouldn’t have,” Jim says, touched by his partner’s thoughtfulness, and hugs him tightly.

 

“Merry Christmas, Jim. I’m sorry you have to spend it here.”

 

He can see Oswald gawking at them, so he turns away. Jim just nods; he told Harvey on the phone that it hurts when he talks, so he keeps it to a minimum. They go outside for a while, to talk in private. Laughter and pleasant chit-chat is coming from all the rooms: relatives are visiting the patients who are stuck at the hospital.

 

“Has your roomie told you what happened to him yesterday?”

 

Jim shakes his head.

 

“Shame. We’re not exactly sure either. I mean, we know it was Nygma, and he killed four of Penguin’s men. On Christmas Eve, man. How ruthless.”

 

Harvey spots a coffee vending machine, and even though they know it’ll taste like shit, they both get a cup. It’s just more pleasant to drink something in each other’s company. Naturally, Harvey’s doing most of the talking, telling Jim wild stories about his crazy Irish grandparents. Although Harvey insists on staying longer, Jim tells him to go. It’s Christmas; he’s surely got better things to do, like enjoy his free day.

 

“Jim, before I go,” Harvey says, and looks around furtively. He slips a hand into his coat pocket, and produces a small bottle of eggnog. “What’s Christmas without some booze?”

 

“Thanks,” Jim whispers, hiding the bottle in his pocket.

 

When Jim goes back to the room, Oswald is not in his bed. He hears the shower running, and thinks that he also ought to take one later. There’s a TV mounted on the wall, so Jim reaches for the remote to see if there’s anything interesting. Syrupy Christmas movies is all he can find, but he leaves it on, with the sound almost muted.

 

Oswald exits in a pair of dark, silk pyjamas, and Jim notices the red fingerprints around the gangster’s throat. Oswald winces and tries not to cry out as he hobbles to his bed, clutching his side.  He’s out of breath by the time he lies down. A few minutes later, a nurse pushes in a cart with their lunch. She puts each tray on their nightstand and leaves. Jim feels somewhat hungry, but when he takes off the lid, he’s not so convinced anymore.

 

It’s chicken soup, but it has a lot of noodles, and pieces of carrot, and it just tastes wrong. Jim puts down his spoon, and looks to his right. Oswald is making a disgusted expression too, and Jim feels relieved. They lock eyes for a moment, before Oswald pushes away the plate.

 

“Not very appetising, is it?”

 

Jim shakes his head. They look at the second course, which is some kind of curry with rice. Oswald tries it first, and his verdict is that ‘it’s edible’. Jim eats a bit, but his throat constricts painfully. They really need to get him some stronger medication.

 

“You don’t like it?” Oswald asks tentatively.

 

“Hurts,” Jim whispers, and points at his throat.

 

“Oh.”

 

The nurse comes after the dishes, and Jim asks for a pill. However, even after half an hour, there’s no sign of it, and Jim is wiping his forehead, thinking that this pain is truly character building.

 

“They’re not very fast around these parts, are they?” Oswald asks, and Jim feels his cheeks blush under Oswald’s intense stare. “I can tell you’re in a lot of pain, let me just get up, and find a nurse.”

 

Jim thinks he’s dreaming. “No,” he tries to say as loud as possible. “Don’t be stupid, you’re not supposed to walk around. I’ll be fine.”

 

He won’t be, but the thought of a more heavily injured man seeking help for him embarrasses Jim. Oswald sighs and mutters something that resembles ‘stubborn’ under his breath. Jim watches the TV for some time, but then thinks about what Harvey told him. Maybe he should try to find out what happened last night, but he needs to ease into the topic.

 

“Visitors?” he asks, hoping that Oswald understand his monosyllabic question.

 

“No. Who would visit me, James?”

 

“Gabe.”

 

“I told him to stay home with his family. No point in him playing the sentinel when there’s a policeman at the door.”

 

Jim ruminates on his next words, deciding that the direct approach is the best.

 

“Your stabbing…” when Oswald looks at him, he continues, “Nygma?”

 

Oswald’s eyes darken with something harsher than anger. It’s disappointment and hurt. Jim understands: the two were friends – well, apparently that’s the word that villains use too – so it must pain the gangster that things changed so drastically.

 

“Yes, I was at the cemetery…” Oswald’s voice quivers. “I told my men to wait by the gates. Clearly a mistake, but I d-didn’t think he’d…”

 

Jim swallows, his pain flaring up even more. He reaches for a pack of gum Harvey brought him.

 

“He’s an ass,” he manages to say.

 

“Even worse,” Oswald adds, touching the imprint on his throat. “At least I managed to break two fingers on his right hand.”

 

Jim’s just lying there, staring out the window at the overcast sky, pretending that his cast aside gaze gives Oswald some privacy. He’s not surprised by the joy that flares up in his chest at the thought of Oswald retaliating against Nygma. He tries to imagine himself in Cobblepot’s place. Jim’s never really had a best friend except for Harvey, so he imagines what it would be like if Harvey turned against him one day, trying to kill him at every opportunity. Jim has difficulty breathing, and the pain from his throat spreads towards his chest. Oswald being the hyper sensitive person that he is must feel absolutely devastated by this turn of events, even though the war’s been going on for over six months now.

 

The nurse finally comes into their room, and Jim thinks that time works differently – or maybe it doesn’t work at all – in hospitals. She gives Jim his pills, and sets up a new IV bag for Oswald.

 

“You know, I thought I loved him,” Oswald says, and Jim thinks he imagined it, until he slowly turns his head and notices the wet shine of the gangster’s eyes. Jim’s head is buzzing; he heard the rumours about a tragic, one-sided love story, but he always brushed them aside.

 

Oswald turns his head too, taking in Jim’s surprised expression. “You think I’m a fool, don’t you?”

 

Jim shakes his head. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

 

“Yes, but I seem to commit them every single time. I always trust the wrong people.”

 

Even though Oswald probably meant his words in a general sense, Jim knows that he also fits that profile. He’s been… less than kind to Oswald, when all he wanted was to be someone’s friend. But Jim couldn’t deal with the feelings that bubbled up in his chest whenever they met, or the thoughts that kept him awake at night. The dreams that haunted his waking hours. Usually, he hated how it got dark at four in the afternoon already, but now he’s thankful for the poor light that hid his blush.

 

His thoughts are interrupted by the embarrassing noise his empty stomach makes.

 

Oswald snorts: “You know, I didn’t want to say anything, but I’m dying of hunger.”

 

“Same,” Jim whispers, and turns on his bedside lamp, his gaze meeting Oswald’s excited one.

 

“After that miserable lunch, however, I don’t trust the hospital with our dinner. What would you like to eat?”

 

Jim thinks, and blurts out the first thing that comes into his mind: “Pizza.”

 

He instantly regrets it, because Oswald surely wants to have something fancy for Christmas, but instead he grins. “Perfect.”

 

Oswald takes his phone and talks to some guy Alberto in hushed tones. Jim wonders if there’s even one pizza place open on Christmas, or if Oswald’s just about to ruin someone’s family time because of his whim. He’s slightly upset, but then his stomach reminds him that it’ll soon transform into a black hole if it’s not fed very soon.

 

“Right, it should arrive in half an hour.”

 

He’s not able to explain why, but Jim is flooded by giddiness. It should probably feel tense, or at least awkward, to spend Christmas with the criminal kingpin of Gotham, but instead he can only see a young man who needs just as much cheering up as he does, or perhaps even more. Since they’re both doomed to this place, they might as well make the most of it.

 

Even the pills start kicking in, and soon Jim can’t feel the constricting pain in his throat anymore. He gets up to make the table ready for their grand Christmas dinner. Jim puts the sweets aside while Oswald comments that Santa Harvey has been very generous this year, and the detective brings the small Christmas tree to the middle of the table. It’s only then that he notices a button on the stand of the tree. When Jim pushes it, the baubles light up.

 

“Wow, I’m impressed!” Oswald says, and beams at Jim.

 

There’s a knock at the door, and Oswald walks there as fast as his injury allows. He pays the delivery guy, and gives the on-duty policeman one of the boxes. Jim goes to help him with the rest, since Oswald has to drag the IV stand after him. They settle around the table, Oswald wincing slightly as he sits down. He tells Jim that the pizzas are made after an original Neapolitan recipe, as if Jim knew what that meant, but when he takes the first bite, he feels like crying.

 

He can’t prevent a moan escaping from his mouth, and when he opens his eyes, he finds Oswald regarding him with an amused look.

 

“It’s delicious,” Jim explains with red ears, and Oswald nods, the twinkle never leaving his eyes.

 

They eat in comfortable silence, the first few slices disappearing rather quickly, then they slow down to actually enjoy the taste and cheesiness.

 

“You know, this is perhaps my first Christmas without a duck roast. However hard times were, my dear mother always managed to make a most magnificent Christmas dinner with everything you could wish for, from potato salad to sautéed apples, and of course, the desserts. Stollen with marzipan, vanilla half moons, gingerbread…”

 

Jim can only imagine the goodies Oswald evokes, and feels sorry that he’s been robbed of future holidays with his beloved mother. He knows the feeling, and unfortunately, he had to realise rather early that Christmases without his father felt hollow. He knows that Oswald doesn’t expect it, but he, too, wants to share a story, a happy one.

 

“One Christmas we went to the mountains,” he starts, and Oswald looks at him intently, listens as if this is the most important story he’s ever going to hear. “There was so much snow, and it was quiet, so dad and I found a great slope and sledged all afternoon. Our clothes were all soaked by the time we went back to our cabin, but mom had stoked the fireplace, and made us hot chocolate. Dad nicked some cookies from the pantry, even though we weren’t supposed to touch those till after dinner. Sometimes, it feels like that magic will never return.”

 

Oswald hums understandingly, then tells Jim about the time he broke his mother’s favourite vase when he tried to get to the cinnamon stars she baked the previous day, and Jim laughs, imagining how Oswald must have squirmed on the hard church pew after he took a good spanking.

 

“This is really good,” Jim says, and he’s not sure if he means the pizza or the whole evening.

 

He then remembers the bottle of eggnog Harvey gave him, and produces it from his drawer with a mischievous smile.

 

“Well, we’re getting very festive now,” Oswald says, and if Jim’s hand trembles as he pours the eggnog in two glasses, it’s because Oswald is looking at him again the way he used to at the beginning of their…acquaintance? No, _friendship_.

 

“I’m not sure if we’re supposed to drink with the painkillers, but it’s Christmas.”

 

Jim also opens the pack of cookies Harvey brought him. When he looks up, he catches Oswald looking at him over the rim of the glass, and they both blush.

 

“Cheers,” Jim croaks, and takes a sip.

 

The bottle is really too small, so it only lasts for a second round. Probably better, considering their current situation. They’re watching _Home Alone_ on the TV when a nurse knocks and comes inside.

 

“Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, I’ve just brought your evening meds.”

 

Jim rubs the back of his neck, flustered, as he receives his pills.

 

“Ah, Mr. Cobblepot, you know you’re not really supposed to be out of bed,” the nurse admonishes as she changes the IV bag.

 

“Promise to go back soon,” Oswald replies with a winning smile.

 

The nurse glances at the empty eggnog bottle, but doesn’t say anything. After she leaves, Oswald gets up slowly, pushing against the table.

 

“I’m afraid the nurse was right; I need to lie down,” he says, his brows furrowed. He doesn’t try to be so tough anymore, so he lets pain slip onto his expression.

 

Without a word, Jim puts his arm around Oswald, mindful of the injury. Oswald looks up at him gratefully, and with his left hand clutching Jim’s shoulder and the right one dragging the IV stand, he makes it back to his bed. Their hands linger on each other, afraid to let go and break the spell of the evening.

 

“Thanks,” Oswald whispers, and leans in to press a kiss to Jim’s stubbly cheek. Stays there just a moment longer, the tip of his nose brushing against Jim’s jawline, inhaling his scent.

 

Jim’s stomach flutters, and his fingers squeeze Oswald’s good side before they slide off the gangster’s body. He helps Oswald get into the bed, trying not to let it show how much it affects him when Oswald looks up at him so admiringly from behind his gorgeous eyelashes.

 

He gets into his own bed, and they watch together the end of the movie, Oswald laughing loudly, Jim content to just smile, resting his throat. It feels a bit surreal, to be here in this hospital room, with Harvey’s tiny Christmas tree flickering in the corner, and his insurmountable desire to climb into Oswald’s bed and hold him till they fall asleep. He glances at Oswald a few times, his hands fisting in the sheets.

 

From afar, they can hear a choir singing. Jim remembers hearing a nurse say while he was talking to Harvey outside, that a church group would come to cheer up the patients. He’s not a fan of Christmas carols, but the sounds are soft and calming. He feels Oswald’s eyes on him, and he turns his head to look at him.

 

 “Jim?”

 

He’s out of his bed before Oswald can even voice his request, and he waits patiently for Oswald to scoot a little over before he gets into his bed. He sneaks his leg over Oswald’s left one, trying to find a way to lie on his side, and as Jim hugs Oswald close to him and covers with kisses the red fingerprints on Oswald neck, he thinks he’s finally regained it, that magic that used to make his whole body vibrate with happiness.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at butterfliesandresistance.tumblr.com


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